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“You feel that you need to get me under control?”
“I feel that researching annual childhood-mortality rates is not a healthy coping mechanism for loss.”
With pursed lips and narrowed eyes, Clarissa appeared to be debating with herself. She stood up suddenly, her own authority back in place, and walked to a side table that held a number of silver-framed photographs. She took one up and lightly passed a finger across it before handing it to Diana.
“That is my brother Thomas. It was taken just eight weeks before he disappeared. It is a story much passed around in the village and, no doubt, the school with all the variations that time and curiosity can create. I wonder … I find I am in need of a detached observer. A nurse, if you will. An unflappable, intelligent mind that can see past emotional complications in order to view things in their proper relationships. I would like to tell you about Thomas and my own reasons for remaining at Havencross.”
When Diana didn’t immediately reply, Clarissa added, “Not now. It’s been a rough night and a difficult morning. You must see to Austin Willis, and I must see to my school. Perhaps you would join me for tea tomorrow or the next day?”
Diana looked from the boy, frozen forever just before a smile, to the woman who still grieved enough that she hoped to find ghosts. “Of course I’ll join you. I’d be honored.”
Maybe by then she could think of something to say that wouldn’t be dismissive or dishonest.
After checking in with Beth—Austin had fallen asleep and she was keeping both boys out of class for the day—Diana went to the infirmary and tidied away the linens from Austin’s stay. Next she sat down to update her notes. She got no further than the date before exhaustion and melancholy swamped her and she put her head on her crossed arms on the desk.
She slipped somewhere between daylight and dreams, into that nebulous space where everything harsh and sharp recedes and all is muffled in cotton wool. She drifted in that half-pleasant, half-stultifying state until jerked upright by the sound of an enormous crash behind her.
Diana whirled out of her chair and was not surprised to find an empty room.
She was surprised to discover one of her file cabinets on its side. Diana touched it with the tip of one shoe; it was solid oak. Even empty she’d only been able to move it by throwing her shoulder against it and shoving it with the whole weight of her body. She doubted there was a boy who could do it. The faculty?
But none of that answered the question of how the person had vanished so suddenly.
Rolling her eyes, Diana grudgingly accepted that, whatever her fears, she would have to explore Joshua’s secret passages. Whatever the difficulties, there must have been some added to the medieval sections, now lost from present memory. It was the only explanation that made sense—even if it did leave out the why of the whole thing.
As though he’d read her resolution from afar, a knock on her door was followed by Joshua’s entry. He had his mouth open to speak but switched what he’d meant to say when he saw the fallen file drawer.
“More pranks?” he asked.
But even as Diana shook her head, the expression on his face changed and he strode across the room, the hitch of his left leg noticeable in his haste. “What happened?” he asked more urgently.
“It fell—” she began.
But Joshua had taken her chin in one hand and angled her face up and away. “A file drawer didn’t do that.”
Diana raised a hand to her neck, only now realizing that it stung. She pulled away from Joshua and fetched the hand mirror she kept in a drawer.
Angled from her left ear down her neck, which had been exposed while she dozed at her desk, were four red streaks. Diana had never seen anything quite like them before but she knew instantly what they were: sharp fingernails had raked her skin hard enough to draw beads of blood.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ISMAY
DECEMBER 1457
For the first time in nearly a year, the entire York family gathered at Ludlow Castle in the Welsh marches, including Anne (though she came without her husband, who was far too firmly identified with the Lancastrian cause.) While Elizabeth and Margaret fawned over their sister, Ismay kept five-year-old Richard entertained and tried to keep eight-year-old George from slipping away to harass his older brothers for stories.
Edward, give him his due, was an affectionate big brother who happily recounted stories of tournaments and battles to George—until he was distracted by an attractive kitchenmaid or visiting daughter or sister of local gentry. Edmund was less easily sidetracked and spent as much time as possible with his little brothers and Ismay. Which she was even more grateful for when Duchess Cecily’s family arrived for the holiday.
Ismay had only seen Johnny Neville a handful of times since the uncomfortable proposal meeting two years earlier. Since then he hadn’t done much to press his suit personally beyond remembering her name and asking her about Havencross. Ismay was less afraid of Johnny than of his brother, the Earl of Warwick. Fortunately for her, Warwick was stuck in Calais, so she had to deal with only the second-most-frightening member of the Neville family: Warwick’s father, the Earl of Salisbury.
Although they’d met several times, Salisbury always treated Ismay like a new pet his sister Cecily had taken into her family. Ismay thought that was the most humiliating thing he could do to her. Until Christmas day.
After mass and a feast in the great hall, Salisbury summoned Ismay to sit next to him while carolers sang. It was clear that Warwick had learned his techniques from his father, for Salisbury looked her up and down twice before deigning to speak.
“You’re growing up nicely,” he said, in a tone that left no room for mistaking his intent. “Not many women can bear like my wife or sister, but I think my brother-in-law is right—you’re worth the chance.”
You mean Havencross is worth the chance, Ismay thought darkly. “And what does Johnny think?” she asked.
